


A Different Kind of Animal

by GoddessofBirth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), Twilight Series - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, First Meetings, I regret not a thing, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-14
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:50:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's out of the Camaro before he even realizes it, because whatever she smells like, it isn't human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Kind of Animal

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired, as so many things are, by the RP of imthealphanow and clearwaterwoman. I regret nothing.

It's raining; a light, deceptive mist that allows people to stride down the sidewalks without umbrellas, but leaves the roads oily slick in unexpected places. Derek is driving down a narrow Seattle side street, mind half on the rush hour traffic surrounding him, and half on the upcoming meeting with the Hale family attorney, to settle the particulars of Peter's estate. He very deliberately does not think about the fact he has now killed his uncle twice, because he's familiar enough with Greek mythology to know that bill will eventually become due, no matter how justified or necessary it might have been.

 

But it's just one thing on an entire list of charges he'll eventually be called on the carpet for, and not even close to the top; considering that his sins are responsible for his entire family burning to death, he's not particularly concerned about this singular incident of parricide. And it comes with its own benefits: the Alpha pack has been dealt with, Scott's Disney love affair with Allison is once again full steam ahead, and Erica and Boyd have been brought back into the fold. Isaac...Derek doesn't know if there is anything he can do to fully make things right for Isaac; he crossed too many lines in the first, heady days of his rise to Alpha. But Isaac is nothing if not loyal, and having the boy move into the Stilinskis' spare room has at least put them on a better path.

  
  


His pack is not perfect, but it is becoming more whole, and he thinks he can take a moment to breathe and celebrate that fact.

  
  


It's because his attention has wandered further from the road and more to his internal musings – despite what Stiles says, he _does_ have those – that he misses the sudden slow down in traffic, and almost rear ends a motorcycle that has cut between his car and the pickup he had been following. He slams on brakes and comes to a squealing, skidding halt, just inches from its back wheel, and the rider – a woman, although the beads of water sliding down his windshield make her features blurry – whips around to stare at him.

  
  


He makes the universal _I'm sorry_ sign, trying to look as contrite as possible, and then, as traffic starts to move again, realizes he's actually reached his destination. The gods must be on his side, because a parking spot is open, and he manages to parallel park before anyone starts honking horns at him for holding up the show.

  
  


He's rifling through the file on the passengers' seat, when an aggressive knock on the window makes him jerk his head around. It's the girl from the motorcycle, and now that she's right there, he can see that she's young, probably his age, and Native American, with high, sharp cheekbones, and short hair that looks like its been hacked off with garden shears, rather than skillfully styled. She knocks hard on the window again, completely ignoring the rain misting around her, and circles her hand, a clear indication she expects him to roll it down.

 

_Shit._ He pastes his best smile on his face and grits his teeth, prepares to stretch for some kind of verbal apology, and lowers the window. He doesn't even get a chance to open his mouth.

  
  


“What the fuck is your problem?” she spits out, leaning into the car and jabbing a finger at his chest, like she's not remotely concerned about the fact he has at least sixty pounds on her and a good four inches.

  
  


“You think because you drive a fancy ass sports car you own the road?”

  
  


It's been so long since a stranger has challenged him – he knows he gives off something of a serial killer vibe, and truthfully he encourages it – that he's taken aback, and before he can think of a response, she's yelling again, voice smokey and low and _furious_.

  
  


“You assholes and your compensation,” she looks disdainfully at his crotch. “Gotta prove how big and bad you are to everybody. Funny, all you're really confirming is how tiny your dicks are.”

  
  


He stares at her, blinking, wondering how things spiraled out of his control so quickly.

  
  


“What? You got nothing to say?”

  
  


Her scent carries nothing of fear, not a single hint of _prey_ , and the uncomfortable notion that _he_ might be the one exuding that smell, forces the words up through the tangle of his throat. He doesn't like this, being thrown off balance, tasting the feel of being backed up against the wall.

  
  


Or does he?

  
  


“It was an accident. I'm sor -”

  
  


“Damn right you are. Do fucking better next time. Road rash isn't a good look on me.” She snaps the words out like bullets, sharp and fast and stinging, and then pushes back from the window, only stopping to kick his tire with one well worn boot.

  
  


That pushes him past his shock; this is his car, was _Laura's_ car.

  
  


“Hey!” he snarls out the window.

  
  


She doesn't even look back, just flips him off over her shoulder before weaving between the parked cars.

  
  


Later, he will blame the utter discombobulation of the encounter - the fact that some random _girl_ has challenged his Alpha and, for all intents and purposes, succeeded in making him bare his throat - as the reason it takes a good thirty seconds for it to hit him how _wrong_ her scent is. Or maybe that's not the right word – she's not sick, or injured, or any of one hundred other things that can make a person's scent smell off. Instead, it's forest, and leaves, and fresh turned dirt; blood and heartbeat and rain-wet skin, and it has him vaulting out of the Camaro before he's fully aware of it, scanning the street for her.

  
  


Because whatever it is she smells like, it's not human.

  
  


He catches sight of her half a block up the street, just as she's pulling the saddle bag from her bike and slinging it over her shoulder. She cuts through the crowded sidewalk and disappears into a nondescript building, with an as yet unlit sign – _Mixx_.

  
  


His feet carry him forward, meeting with the attorney already forgotten. He slides seamlessly into Hunter, following the neon bright scent. Now that he's caught it, it's as obvious as droplets of blood up the sidewalk, and his wolf is tearing at the bit to reach the source. He tells himself it's because she's an unknown, and unknowns are always a danger, especially for a pack as young and relatively weak as his own. He tells himself it's because he needs to reassert his dominance - he doesn't know _what_ she is, her scent brick-a-brac familiar and touching on lupine, while still being coppery strange, but _he_ is the Alpha here, and to show weakness is to risk one's intestines being spilled.

  
  


It's the shiver up his spine that keeps the lie from being completely convincing, the taste on the back of his tongue that whispers of challenge, and fight, and unsteady footing on rocky ground. It's the sharp crack and licking fire of the scorn in her voice that pulls him forward, a string being wound to its skein.

  
  


But he's good at ignoring truth - it's been his mainstay of survival for the last seven years - so as he slips around the back of the warehouse that's masquerading as a club, he pulls his phone from his pocket and sends a text to Scott.

  
  


_Unexpected problem; be back a few days late. Tell Chris to expect a call._


End file.
